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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/24950266">Frequently, Constantly, Never</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/Jeevey/pseuds/Jeevey'>Jeevey</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Series:</b></td><td>Love in the Time of Corona [2]</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Oasis (Band)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>F/M, M/M, Separation, present day</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-06-27</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-06-27</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-04 08:54:46</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Not Rated</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>No Archive Warnings Apply</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>1,345</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/24950266</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/Jeevey/pseuds/Jeevey</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>Noel doesn't think abut his brother.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Liam Gallagher/Noel Gallagher, Noel Gallagher/Sara MacDonald</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Series:</b></td><td>Love in the Time of Corona [2]</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Series URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/series/1747696</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>10</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>24</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>Frequently, Constantly, Never</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>“I don't know, I think I like this one,” Sara said. </p><p>She pointed to a photograph of herself at their garden window, its ivory bars spanning half the image and a drape of white curtain behind her. She was looking at the camera over the shoulder of her black velvet jacket, and her hair spilled over her face like a veil.  “It's more glamorous isn't it,” she said.</p><p>“Yeah, but it's not the right one. This is it,” Noel said. </p><p>The photograph he indicated showed Sara in the same jacket, with pinstripe trousers and a white scarf round her neck like an old-fashioned man’s cravat.  She reclined on the purple velvet sofa he had picked out for her, touching her face, one leg crossed over her body in mannish trousers. Her clothes were severe but the pose informal, almost awkward.</p><p>A flat white flash bulb flattened her face so that not a single mark of age showed. In fact, the very features of her face hardly showed: white teeth with a finger caught between, smooth black eyeliner, effortless tousled hair. A sketch of a perfect woman, effortlessly contained. It looked like something a friend might snap, if you didn't know the hours that went into staging and styling it. </p><p>A woman might cry with envy at how careless and perfect she looked. A man might think about fucking her on those purple cushions. Taken, is what the image said: taken, taken care of, perfect. Noel circled it in red, returned it to the editor and went on to the article’s text.</p><p>“Hm,” he said. “What's this about you being stressed out? They've got you looking at your phone all the time? Talking about shopping? No, not having it.”</p><p>“You know that was supposed to be final copy,” Sara said. “They’re not really asking what you think. Besides, I like that part. I thought it was really relatable.”</p><p>The article opened with Sara announcing to Vogue’s puff-piece intern that she was in dire need of cocktails, and spending most of  the interview on her phone. Noel remembered the day. A pair of Louboutin heels had come from the shop in the wrong size. Sara had planned on wearing them out that evening and spent most of the interview ignoring the journalist to text her personal assistant on getting an exchange. Noel looked at her carefully. She wasn't joking; she really thought it was relatable. He struck the details out in red and went on.</p><p>“Are you sure you want this bit about the dossier of Liam’s twitter shit in here?”  he asked.</p><p>“Of course,” she said. “That's the point, isn't it. Showing everyone how horrible he and how much he affects us. Us against your brother, the mad Internet troll. That's why we were doing this, right?”</p><p>Noel said nothing. It was in fact why they were doing it. To show everyone how absolutely loyal he was to Sara and she to him, and, perhaps most importantly, for Liam to get the message,  finally and completely , to shut up about Sara.</p><p>Noel told him so very clearly in the interview and had made sure it was correctly quoted: he thought constantly about reviving the band. Looking at it now, he struck out the word <em>constantly</em> and wrote, <em>frequently.</em></p><p>He did think about it. Constantly. But his wife was not up for discussion anymore than the nose on his face. That was the real point, although Sara seemed to have missed it.</p><p>Still he didn't like the dossier. He didn't like the fact that she kept printouts of all his brother’s obnoxious texts any more than he liked that she kept all her journals, and he especially didn't want its existence in the article. It didn't sit right, though he couldn't say why. It made it look like he was thinking about his brother too much. He did think about his brother. Constantly.</p><p>“You’re sure, “ he said doubtfully. </p><p>“Noel. I want him to know.”</p><p>He looked through the article' s text one last time. He liked the bit where he talked about how much he loved Sara, but it wasn't quite enough. Next to the bit where he said Sara was his soulmate, the only person who truly made him laugh, he added in red, <em>the only one he wanted by his side.</em></p><p>Then he sent it back to the editor with the dossier bit still in and leaned back in his chair. </p><p>“Just so you know,” he told Sara, “You’re never going to publish your journals.”</p><p>She smiled and began to chiffonade the parsley.</p><p>Late that night he received a text from Liam. He did this sometimes, live-tweeting his life as if Noel was listening and going to respond.</p><p>"That wee lassie got glassed and no cunt leaves till I find out what cunt did it."</p><p>Noel watched the words light up his screen, a little firework trail of his amputated brother. It never stopped amazing him that Liam was still out there, screeching through life as he’d always done. He’d believed that Liam would cease to exist somehow when Noel went away. Not that he imagined he would die of a broken heart or anything; he just couldn’t believe in Liam going through one day after another, over years, without Noel there. He had thought that leaving would end it.</p><p>Nothing had ended. His phone still lit up years later with evidence that Liam still thought of him. Still missed him. It lit up again now, first with a couple of stuttering nonsensical gobs, then a proper sentence.</p><p>“Watching Trainspotting. Biblical rite?”</p><p>Noel slid the text open, as had become his habit recently. For years he'd just looked at the preview and deleted automatically. Now he read the whole thing. He didn’t know why. He just wanted to see it there in his hand, the evidence.</p><p>But as he read his thumb slipped, and the letter Y popped up and blinked green. Sent. Fuck.  </p><p>Early the next morning Sara threw a pillow at his head. When he opened his eyes she  held out her own blinking phone, showing  a Twitter post with a timestamp exactly one minute after his single letter reply. </p><p>Wahey we’re getting back together Noel Gallagher being minted and rich as fuck he’s doing it for nothing me being a desperate cunt  and have fuck all else going for himself I’m doing it for the cash c’mon you know LG x</p><p>“Make. This. Stop,” she told him, and walked away.</p><p>Noel spent the next hour trying to get into his own official Twitter account. Usually his management team made carefully inane posts, and he didn't even have it installed on his phone. Sara let him know about anything important that happened on Twitter. In fact, what was happening  on Twitter was one of her favorite topics of conversation, and he sometimes wondered if his wife hadn’t just moved her brain right into the fucking phone.</p><p>But some things can’t be done second hand. Noel was suddenly livid with rage and was damned if he would let someone else manage his stupid fucking amputated brother who wasn’t supposed to exist anymore.</p><p>The problem was two factor identification, whatever that was. Noel didn’t understand why he couldn’t log into his own damn account from his own damn phone, and he was just about ready to smash it through the window when Cecile texted, curiosity spilling out of her little blue words.</p><p>“Chief, are you trying to get into the Twitter account?” she asked.</p><p>YES, he replied. She sent the confirmation code without further comment. He made the first official post he'd ever written with his own hands, shaking with anger.</p><p>To whoever might be arsed: I am not aware of any offer from anybody for any amount of money to reform the legendary Mancunian Rock’n’Roll group Oasis. I am fully aware though that someone has a single to promote so that’s maybe where the confusion lies.</p><p> </p><p>When it was done he went out to the gym and beat his personal best for deadlifts, twice.</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>Sara MacDonald On The Triumphs, Turbulences And Twitter Wars Of Oasis 05 April, 2020</p><p>https://www.vogue.co.uk/arts-and-lifestyle/article/sara-macdonald-noel-gallagher-interview</p></blockquote></div></div>
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